Colors and matches
by Crazycatscarmen
Summary: Stan is cold. Really cold. Ford is having some sort of mental breakdown. Tw: Near death experiences? Random cliffhanger? Also, it's supposed to be a suicidal fic, but whether it's actually suicide or will become suicide is up for debate at this point. I'll finish this story at some point, so we'll find out together.
1. Chapter 1

**Anyone can die. It takes a will to keep on living.  
**

* * *

It was said that people bleeding heavily from wounds needed to be kept cool. It slowed the circulatory system, keeping them alive longer.

Prolonging their suffering.

Stan powered through the several feet of fresh powder that enveloped his legs. All he knew about the cold was that it was powerful. It seeped into his thin excuse for a jacket. It numbed his skin, sinking ever deeper until his very bones were made of not only bone but ice.

He stumbled and nearly face-planted onto the snow-covered sidewalk beneath him. He steadied himself and kept moving. He wasn't sure where he was, the houses blending together underneath a blanket of white. The only thought that came to his sluggish mind was the need to keep going. To get somewhere safe.

To get somewhere _warm_.

The car was...where had his car gone?

That's right, it had been impounded the other night. He didn't have the money or the energy to get it back. He kept moving.

It felt endless, the street seemed to carry on forever. Where was he going? He had no idea. Somewhere better. Anywhere other than here.

His legs were led weights. They dragged behind him. He had to stop. It was agony- the numbness.

He didn't deserve something so peaceful.

As he walked he came by a small alleyway by a strange looking diner. It was...better. Than moving. It was better than the endless white.

Perhaps it was crazy- maybe he _was_ crazy. Stan stumbled into the alleyway and sighed. It was better.

Why was it better? He didn't know. But the white was gone- replaced by brown. It was wood. The Diner was made of wood. Stan wasn't sure why he liked that.

He sat against the brown wood. Stan used to like colors. Colors were nice. They expressed emotion. They used to symbolize good things. Blue was Ford's favorite color. Blue was the waves of the ocean.

Green meant summer break. Grass. Trees.

Pink. Orange. Purple. A sunset.

Red was strawberries. Apples. Mom's favorite color was red. Stan used to like red.

Red meant he was home.

Now red was...not good. Blue was worse. Blue was the color his hands were. Blue was numb. He didn't want the numb.

Stan's brow furrowed. Why was it so blue out? Why was it so cold?

Snow, right. It was snowing. Where was he? Stan couldn't remember. He couldn't remember anything much. It was so cold. Too cold.

Warmth. He needed warmth.

Fire. Fire was warm. Stan blinked, not feeling the ice falling off his frozen lids as he reached into his pocket. Right, he had matches. Matches were warm.

The first match fell. Why were his hands shaking? He couldn't feel them. He couldn't feel anything.

Another match. Another dud.

Stan was sure he was supposed to not drop them. Dropping them wasn't part of being warm, right? He tried again, face twisted in determination.

A bright flare. It was fire. Stan had a flash of warm on his nose. His nose felt something. His hands were warm now. It was warm. Stan sighed, a shuddering breath that nearly made the warm go away. He stopped breathing. Breathing wasn't good for the warm.

The warm reached his fingertips and suddenly the warm was gone and Stan frowned. The cold was back. He found another match quickly- anything to make the cold go away.

It flared up and Stan didn't breathe this time. Instead, he smiled. The warm brought good memories. Warm made him think of beds and blankets and smiles. It made him think of when colors were good. When the colors made him feel warm rather than bitter.

Bitterly cold. The warm was gone.

Fingers fumbling for another match, suddenly all the fire's were duds. They littered the ground beneath him. Stan stared at them.

The cold enveloped him again quickly. It swiftly overtook him and everything felt heavy. Was it weird the black was warmer than the white? He saw black. Black wasn't a color. Black was good.

He sunk into the black and didn't resurface.

...

"Fiddleford, I really don't need to-" Ford began as he was dragged from his desk towards the door.

"Ya need ta get outta the house, Stanferd! The storm blew o'er us 'while ago, so ya have no excuse ta stay inside." Fiddleford dictated as he swung him at the coat rack. Ford barely caught himself before he crashed into it and he crossed his arms.

" I need to work, there's no reason we can't just eat here!" He argued as Fiddleford forced his coat into his arms.

"Stanferd Pines, do it look like I got any ingredients ta make a decen' meal?! Don' argue. Now git."

Ford sighed, reluctantly complying. Fiddleford shoved him out the door just as he was pulling on his hat and Ford nearly fell into the several feet of snow on his doorstep.

"Fiddleford!" He gasped. Fiddleford just snickered.

"City boy."

"Oh well that's not fair and you know it." Ford scowled as he slipped down the stairs. Fidds shrugged and lightly stepped down and made his way to his car. He smirked again as he watched Ford struggled through the snow. He raised a brow.

"An here I thought ya were a Jersey boy. Don' ya ge' any blizzerds up there?" He asked as he opened the door to the car, letting Ford flop onto the seat. He couldn't help but snicker again at how helpless Ford looked.

Ford clambered inside and quickly did his seat belt. "Yes, we did, nasty ones too. I...didn't do well then either." He admitted. Fiddleford had a sneaking suspicion the pink on his cheeks wasn't from the cold alone. He laughed.

"Ya are a piece 'o work Stanferd."

Ford sighed. "I know."

They drove carefully from the house to the town, parking in front of the only Diner they had in town. They really needed to go shopping, but Fidds figured they could do that after they'd eaten something. Neither had consumed what was considered actual sustenance in...awhile. Ford clicked his seatbelt off and was relieved to find that someone had salted the parking lot of the diner, making the trip to the door that much easier for him. It wasn't that Ford wasn't fit...he just didn't have the best equilibrium. Or any really.

He made it to the door and they went inside. Fiddleford doing all the talking as they took their orders. Ford loathed social interaction. Some things never changed.

Fidds ordered two hot chocolates, which he was extremely grateful for. Outside wasn't just cold. It was a cold that cut straight through all your layers and made you shiver, even all bundled up, clinging to you even after entering the warmth of the indoors.

He also got them their favorite meals- Fiddleford's being grilled chicken and Ford's being pancakes. He liked taking advantage of the 'breakfast all day' thing the diner had, even it made little to no sense.

They ate, chatting happily about nothing and everything. Well...almost. Ford kept stopping mid-conversation and cocked his head as if listening.

"Stanferd, what are ya doin'?" Fidds asked curiosity peeked as Ford did it for the third time. Ford shook himself out of it and shrugged, looking as confused as Fidds felt.

"I...don't know. I feel strange...?"

Fiddleford's brow furrowed in concern and he quickly moved a hand to check Ford's forehead. Ford flinched at first and blushed. He wasn't a child.

"Fidds, I'm not sick." He moved away and Fiddleford took his hand back and crossed his arms.

"Well I had ta check, didn' I?" His lips turned down in a frown, "Yer right though. Yer not sick, not running a tem'ture anyhow." He cocked a brow, "Have ya been gettin' enough sleep?"

Ford rolled his eyes, "Fiddleford I know what sleep-deprivation feels like..." Ford trailed off and stared out the window. Fiddleford watched him for a moment before waving a hand in front of Ford's focused gaze.

"Stanferd?"

Ford suddenly snapped back to attention and Fidds jumped. "Woah! Stanferd- maybe I should take ya back home? I can go shoppin' by maself." Fidds asked him. He was getting really worried now. It didn't help that he had anxiety over Ford's health in the first place. Maybe this might be normal for someone else, but Ford? That man stressed Fiddleford out more than the devil himself.

Ford shook his head. "No! I mean, that's not necessary. You shouldn't have to do that, although maybe we should leave now...just get it done." Ford nodded to himself.

"Yes, let's just leave now."

Fidds stared at him, contemplating whether or not to just take him home anyway, but when Ford looked him straight in the eyes without shifting away he figured it would be fine. He shrugged.

"Alrigh' Stanferd, let's git goin'." He stood up and Ford followed behind him.

They made it about three steps out the door before Ford stopped. Fidds was already by the car and looked up to see Ford staring at a darkened alleyway, eyes wide. Fidds ran back to him.

"Stanferd, it's freezin' out here. Why are ya standin' in the cold? What are ya starin' at?" He could see his own breath in the frigid air. Was Stanford going crazy? It seemed likely enough.

Ford suddenly lurched forward, stumbling on the cracks in the sidewalk as he dived into the darkness. Fidds stared after him wide-eyed.

"Stanferd!" Fidds wanted to facepalm but refused to expose his hands to the cold. Instead, he followed after his friend. He stopped inches away from hitting Ford right in the back.

Before he could say anything, Ford pointed to the ground in front of him. It took Fidds eyes a moment to adjust. When they did, he gasped.

A man was curled up against the wall of the diner. His hands and face were blue with cold and he seemed frozen in place. The only thing that suggested the man was even alive was the inconsistent white breaths they saw come from the man's mouth.

Fidds gasp seemed to move Ford into action. He quickly kneeled down beside the man. Giving his shoulders a light shake.

Nothing. The man wasn't conscious.

"Fiddleford! Please, this man is going to die if he stays out here any longer! Help me lift him up, shopping can wait." Ford gestured to the man's legs and Ford wrapped his arms around the man's torso. The moved as fast as they could.

Fidds couldn't believe it. He hadn't even been aware of any homeless in Gravity Falls, it was such a small town, it seemed impossible! He tried to wrap his mind around it as they slid the man into the back seat, doing their best to be gentle. He didn't notice the strange look Ford was giving the man as he began driving home.

He was just hoping they wouldn't need a hospital. Hospitals were expensive and he was sure that neither they or the homeless man {For he was clearly homeless.} could pay for such a venture. Anyway, Gravity Falls was so off the map, he would get faster care if they just took him back to the house.

The drive back was tense, but a thought did come to Fiddleford as he drove and he glanced over to Ford.

"Stanferd?"

Ford blinked, cutting his gaze away from the man and turned to Fiddleford. "Yes?"

"How'd ya know?" Fiddleford asked. He had to slow down, the road narrowing as they got closer to home. Ford's gaze wasn't quite at home, a glazed look about them.

"Matches."

"What?" Fidds asked, caught off guard. Ford's brow furrowed.

"He was surrounded by matches."

Fidds eyes widened and his sadness on the man's behalf doubled in size. He didn't dwell on it however as they were just about to pull into the driveway. He parked the car and they both tumbled out of the car. The mystery could wait, this man was in trouble. Fidds didn't dwell on why they didn't call for help or...call 911. It didn't matter just then.

Anyway, Stanford seemed...well. He wasn't going to interfere if Ford was going to be saving lives in the process anyway.

Ford nearly fell going back up the stairs, but they made it into the house and swiftly laid the man on the couch. Fiddleford went into parent mode immediately, telling Ford to grab all the supplies he needed. Blankets, anything warm. Surely they had a heating pad somewhere. He looked up in surprise when Ford didn't move.

"Fiddleford...can you leave? Please?" Ford begged. "Actually, I need you to grab a spare set of my clothes first. He won't warm up if he's soaking wet."

Fidds nodded in appreciation of the logic despite the strangeness of the request. He gave Ford a searching glare before quickly turning to go retrieve a set of clothes from Ford's room.

As soon as he left, Ford kneeled by the man.

He'd been trying his best to hold it together, but it was becoming too much. He wondered why Fidds hadn't noticed.

The man looked _exactly_ like Ford. Or...his twin brother. Ford had to swallow back a scream when he first saw him in the alleyway. It couldn't actually be Stanley, could it? Stanley was fine. Stanley was out making friends and...and.

And was half-dead on his couch. Ford just _knew_. Sure he was skinnier, filthy and looked like a tortured smurf, but it was _him_. Ford clenched his brown locks in fists, trying to distract himself from the realization, and from the numerous questions that it brought with it.

He tried to pull himself together as he took the spare clothing and waved Fidds away. Somehow he knew that Stan wouldn't want anyone seeing him.

Including Ford, but that couldn't really be helped at the moment.

The thin jacket fell off easily enough, but the wet shirt was slightly more difficult. He ended up just cutting it off. He did his best to not _think_ yet his mind was screaming at him. It had to be Stanley, but if this was Stanley...Ford. Ford could never forgive himself.

He never thought...he'd lost so much weight. He looked like a different person.

Well, I guess Fidds ignorance was a bit more understandable, at the very least. Even Ford wasn't skinny enough to count each of his ribs the way he could have done to Stan.

He did his best to slip his sweater over Stan's chest as fast as he could. If he looked too long, the scars became more prominent. He wanted to clench his eyes shut. He didn't want this. He didn't want to see.

He kept his eyes open the entire time. He didn't deserve ignorance. This was his brother.

He did this to him.

Ford finished as quickly as he could, throwing the soaked cloth into the trash- it wasn't worth keeping. If Stan was mad at him when {if} he woke up, then so be it. It wasn't unfair, to be honest.

Fidds came back in holding all the supplies he originally wanted Ford to grab and Ford nodded in recognition of Fiddleford's help. They swiftly got Stan settled and then Ford gestured to the kitchen table. They needed to have a talk.

* * *

 **lol, I gotta go to bed, so this is where this is ending. I won't be writing much this week, but review if you enjoyed and want this to continue! Sorta based off of a fic I read with Stan and matches or something but I don't know where it is and I'm too lazy to look for it. So credit to that, I guess? Anyway, Thanks for reading and things. Love ya'll.**

 **Stan: Chicken noodles.**

 **Ford *nodding*: That would be good for the story Stan at the moment. Soup in general really.**

 **Stan: What? No, I was just thinking about chickens and noodles, yeesh. Where did you get soup from?**

 **That's an actually conversation I had. I was Stan, obviously. Have a great day please. {Ps I'm too lazy to proof-read so if it doesn't makes sense, I apologize.}**


	2. Chapter 2

**Anyone can die. It takes a will to keep on living.  
**

* * *

"Is he waking up?"

"Well, tha's what I'm assumin', Stanferd. His eyes are flutterin'. Speaking of such, when did ya wake up this mornin'?"

"Uh...I didn't?"

"Stanferd!"

Stan was...confused.

He could hear voices. One of them was painfully familiar. The other...not. Stan tried to remember the last time he'd been conscious.

Cold.

Bitter cold.

He wanted to shiver, but he didn't move. The only thing that seemed capable of any movement- he was exhausted- was his eyelids. Everything ached and the black was on the edge of his vision. He wanted to return to it, to the safety of it. Yet that's when the voice returned and he began fighting. The voice sounded distinctly sad and...hopeful. Stan didn't want to disappoint the hopeful voice. He knew what disappointment felt like.

Stan struggled to keep his eyes open for any length of time. The voices were still there, softly cheering him on.

"Ya can do it, Stanley."

"Stanley, please wake up. Please."

Suddenly Stan could see and now there were colors.

Ugh.

But with the colors, there were faces and Stan wasn't sure if the faces were bad yet. Usually, faces were either mean or weak or foolish. Faces meant money or scratched knuckles, but these faces seemed nice and not all the faces were bad. Right?

Trying to think was like trudging through mud whilst falling in quicksand. Impossible, for the most part.

"Stanley?"

The voice kept saying that name. His name. A thought came to Stan as he stared at the faces uncomprehendingly.

No one had used his name in years.

Strangely, this didn't bother him. He knew he should be scared...or hopeful. But the cold was still there and he closed his eyes again, unable to fight any longer.

"No, no, no! Stanley, please, please wake up, Stanley, _please."_

He was on the brink of black- he could feel it.

Yet.

The voice was begging him to stay. That was confusing.

No one had ever wanted him to stay before.

Maybe. Maybe...he could fight a little longer. His eyes were again opened to see more colors, the faces were clearer this time. He saw...warm. Warm brown. Brown was good, right? Wasn't that why he found black, because he found brown first? And the black was good, so brown was too. Not icky brown. Warm brown.

Wood. Hair.

Hair?

That's right. The faces, the possibly good faces had warm brown hair. That was good. Stan sighed. Maybe if faces were good he could wake up. Maybe waking up was okay.

Stan woke up.

* * *

 **Help. I don't even know what's going on anymore.**

 **Stan: Yeah, me neither.**

 **Ford: This was such a short chapter.**

 **Me: Yeah, I don't have tons of time to write, I'm gone all day and I only just got back a half-hour ago (it's ten o'clock) and I just finished this and figured, why not post? I want this to continue just as much as you all do...like. The two people who've reviewed. Thanks to you guys, by the way! And everyone who may or may not review in the future, thanks for reading and reviewing!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Anyone can die. It takes a will to keep on living.  
**

* * *

The first thing that came to Stanley when he woke up was. _CRAP._

Because waking up warm and comfortable was never a good thing. Not anymore. Stan's eyes shot open and he sat up with a dry, choked gasp. He heard echoing yelps from in front of him and Stan tensed, his reflexes jerking him backward away from the noise. He was disoriented until he finally sat still against the back of something soft, letting his mind play catch up as his eyes took in what was in front of him.

He caught sight of a quick flash of light. The glint of glasses. Stan finally focused and all of his work in calming down was thrown out the window.

He was staring at himself. Stan slapped a hand over his mouth and closed his eyes as his mind raged against him. He couldn't hear the softly whispered comforts as he fought against the memories.

 _Mirrors- everywhere. hundreds of eyes- staring, piercing, knowing-_

Stan stifled a sob. He couldn't be back there. He couldn't!

Something warm and solid found his shoulder and Stan flinched away.

 _They've found me, no please, nononono-_

"Stanley? Stanley, please! You're safe! Stanley, what's wrong?"

Stan's thoughts stopped in their tracks.

That voice, it was...familiar. He found himself focusing on the voice rather than the images his mind conjured.

"That's it, just breathe...Stanley, it's okay." He felt himself relaxing, his chest slowing its movements. Had he been hyperventilating? Stan's mind was drawn away again to another voice.

"Can ya open yer eyes?"

His eyes. They were still closed. Stan peered from beneath his eyelashes.

He didn't completely relax- he hadn't done that in a long time- but he was comforted by what he saw.

It wasn't a carbon copy of his face after all. It was similar, sure. It had the same warm brown hair and dark eyes and solemn expression. Yet it was fuller- healthier. It was wearing glasses and looked...concerned. Stan's brain could only give him one explanation for what it was seeing.

Stanford Pines.

 _Welp. I've gone insane._

"Stanley?" This time Stan saw the face and heard the voice work in tandem. "Are you alright?"

That was laughable. Stan hadn't been 'alright' for at least eight years, but he found himself slowly nodding. He found his voice after a moment and managed to speak.

"F-Ford?" Stan cursed his weak and rasping voice. The face nodded and Stan couldn't deny it anymore.

Either his mind had broken and created him an imaginary brother- or he was looking at his twin for the first time in nearly a decade.

"Stanley, please say something. Are you feeling alright? You were nearly frozen to death in that alleyway..."

He was here. Stan didn't hear anything more than his brother said because he couldn't believe it. His brother was here! The realization was a shock, but as Ford continued talking, probably explaining what had happened, Stan's focus drifted and he yawned.

He'd missed that voice.

The voice got softer, quieter and Stan hummed when he thought he heard his name. Something warm was pressed against him.

Then it went silent.

...

Fiddleford had nearly jumped ten feet in the air when Stanley finally returned to consciousness, eyes wide and...frightened. After his initial shock, Fiddleford was flooded with compassion once more. He wanted to help as he watched Ford try to manage his brother, who was having a panic attack, curled into the back of their couch.

He was a bit ashamed to admit it, but he felt useless. Ford got his brother to calm down and even recognize him after several minutes. He sat to the side as Ford talked his brother to sleep and place a thick blanket over him.

Ford turned around, eyes swimming with regret. He sat beside Fiddleford and spoke softly as he sunk in on himself.

"What have I done to him, Fiddleford? The first time I get to interact with him in eight years and he has a panic attack!" Ford buried his face into his palms, his glasses forced partway up his head. Fiddleford crossed his arms with a firm, yet kind gaze.

"Stanferd, I know ya blame yerself fer this, but ya can't! Ya were young 'in emoti'nal and ya made a mistake." Fiddleford placed a hand against his back and Ford's head fell on his knees. "I think ya did jus' fine. He's sick, tha' much is obvious. He's naught gonna go back ta the person ya remember either." Fiddleford whispered, "Ya jus' gotta give it time, Stanferd."

Ford sat still for a moment, letting the hand running across his back keep his thoughts from going down the paranoid and anxiety-riddled path they seemed to prefer. He took a deep breath and sat up again, Fiddleford's hand falling away. He adjusted his glasses back into their proper position and sighed.

"You're right. You're always right." Ford shot him a grateful smile before standing up. He glanced at his sleeping brother, looking so peaceful, yet so old as he slept as if the world had stripped him of his youth.

"Do you...do you think that he would stay? If I asked him to? After he's healed, of course." Ford didn't look away from his brother as he spoke, yet the words were directed at his friend.

Fiddleford didn't know much about Stanley, but he had a good feeling about him. Almost as if he was the missing piece to an equation Fiddleford hadn't even thought to look for.

"Yeah." Fiddleford smiled. "I think he would."

* * *

 **I had my friend proof-read this for me at one am.**

 **I trust her judgment.**

 **Even at one am.**

 **So I'm just gonna post and go do things.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Anyone can give up. It takes a will to keep on moving. Tw: Mental issues.**

* * *

The next time Stanley woke up, he was alone.

He blinked as memories rushed at him. He was still on the soft thing he recalled being confused about the first time he woke up. He wasn't sure how long ago it had been. It was dark now, so it must be late, Stan reasoned. His face screwed up in concentration as he tried to remember what had happened.

It was...there had been a-a face. That face...

Stanford. Ford. Stan's mouth hung open. That, was he remembering that right? Was he really in the same house as his brother? He stared up at the ceiling.

It was a stereotypical ceiling. His eyes flickered to the side. On his right, there was, cushions? Right, the soft thing. He was on a couch. Under a blanket.

He hummed. It was nice. He hadn't slept on anything half as comfortable in a long time. He looked to his left.

Books. Paper. A table, buried under books and paper. Stan managed a half-laugh. It definitely _looked_ like Ford lived here. He tried to sit up when he suddenly became aware that he was _exhausted_. He struggled to push himself into a sitting position, arms shaking and trembling.

Well, this didn't make sense. That was probably the best sleep he'd ever gotten and he was _exhausted?_ That's just ridiculous.

Unless...unless it wasn't. He tried to think of how he'd gotten here.

There was the cold, he remembered that. He remembered sitting down and something about brown? What?

Well, if it had been cold...maybe he was sick? That would make sense. That would explain why his bones felt as if they were laden with heavy led weights. Stan sunk into the couch and yawned. Sick or not, this was the most comfortable he'd been in nearly a decade.

Despite how tired his body felt, all his movements sluggish and delayed, Stan's mind was wide-awake. He wanted to get up, look around. _Make sure he wasn't dreaming._ Stan wasn't really comfortable being in unfamiliar territory and unable to move properly.

But if this really was his brother's house...then maybe that was okay? That is if his sick mind hadn't made it all up. It wouldn't be the first time. He shuddered and threw the thought away.

No, this...this was different. Ford hadn't been attacking him...he wanted Stan to wake up. Stan remembered that. He remembered wanting to wake up.

Wait. Stan, with a jolt of surprise, recalled something else.

A voice. A different voice. It was strangely comforting to remember. Because his mind wasn't capable of creating a whole new voice, was it? He could practically hear it, the southern twang. It was asking him something... _can ya open yer eyes?_

Stan blinked. The words sounded distorted in his mind. As if he hadn't been all there when he'd heard them. Stan paled. He-he hadn't...? Well, that's embarrassing. Why would he freak out...?

The face. Right. He'd thought he'd seen his own face. Stan suddenly understood and quickly shook the thought away. He didn't want to think about it, about that place.

Stan sighed. So that's what had happened. He'd pieced it together eventually.

He had been found in the cold- returned to this place, presumably his brother's house. He'd woken up, which almost seemed like a fevered dream at this point, thought he was back at _that_ place and had a panic attack. Then he must have fallen asleep after realizing it wasn't his face and he was safe.

Safe. Was...was he really safe?

With that weird thought, Stan had only one question.

Now what?

He was practically bedridden on a couch in the middle of the night with no desire to go back to sleep.

Well, being sick never stopped him from working before, had it?

* * *

 **Whaaaat?! I'm not being lazy, ending the chapter here! I have no idea what you're talking about.**

 **Yeah, I'm being lazy.**

 **Stan: Yeah! This chapter doesn't even make sense!**

 **Ford: It is rather hard to follow...**

 **Me: Yeah, well I've been listening to twenty-one pilots all day, so there.**

 **Ford: ...well that explains it.**


End file.
